


Up on the Ramparts

by RocGate13



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Gen, M/M, Pro-Mage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-10
Updated: 2018-02-10
Packaged: 2019-03-16 08:46:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13632822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RocGate13/pseuds/RocGate13
Summary: Garrett Hawke arrives at Skyhold upon hearing of Corypheus' return, where he is greeted by Inquisitor Alec Trevelyan. Their conversation is interrupted when Hawke sees a familiar face that brings up some painful memories, leading to an explosive confrontation.





	Up on the Ramparts

Garrett Hawke leaned over the battlements, gazing down at the courtyard far below. He found it hard to disagree with what Varric had told him in his letters – Skyhold was indeed a beautiful and impressive sight. The newly-formed Inquisition couldn’t have chosen a better site to relocate their base of operations, especially after the disaster that had occurred at Haven. A cool wind rushed past him, making the banners flutter, bringing with it an icy chill fresh from the Frostbacks. Hawke inhaled deeply, feeling a wave of nostalgia wash over him. He hadn’t been back in Ferelden in over a decade, but he’d been brought back to the nation that had once been his home before things had been changed forever by a single urgent message from Varric: Corypheus was back.

The fact chilled Hawke far more than any mountain breeze ever could. Even in the lifetime of chaos and confusion that he’d lived, he’d been able to hold onto the certainty of a single fact – things stayed dead when they were killed. And yet the supposed Tevinter magister-turned-darkspawn that Hawke and his companions had slain however many years ago had returned, freshly-charged with red lyrium and bringing an entire army of followers with him. It was worse than anything he could have imagined, which was no easy feat.

Of course, there were people working to stop Corypheus now – a lot of people. When word had first reached Hawke that a new organisation calling itself the Inquisition had been formed following the destruction of the Conclave at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, he’d been highly dubious of what would follow. Any group swearing to restore “order” where the Chantry had failed in the wake of the Mage Rebellion would make Hawke rightfully wary; he’d spent so many years on the run now, fighting alongside his loved ones, always struggling towards a future where mages could finally live unoppressed and unafraid, and now this organisation had risen from nowhere to seemingly threaten to undo everything he had been working for. But Varric had reassured him that the Inquisition was on the mages’ side – a claim supported when the rebel group taking shelter in Redcliffe had been recruited into the organisation as full allies. And now, the Inquisition had named a rebel mage their leader: Inquisitor Alec Trevelyan of Ostwick, otherwise known as the “Herald of Andraste”. The man in question had scarcely left Hawke’s side since they’d been introduced, and even as Hawke stood gazing down from the ramparts, he could feel Trevelyan bobbing nervously at his side. Hawke turned now to face the Inquisitor, and almost cracked a grin when the man practically flinched and hurriedly looked away. Hawke had met his share of starstruck fans, but he hadn’t expected the famed Herald to be one of them. Hawke took in the white hair, the boyish face with flecks of stubble here and there, and the piercing blue-white eyes that reminded him of a certain spirit’s glow. Knowing what he knew of the pious and dignified Trevelyan clan as a fellow Marcher noble, the youthful and expressive Alec wasn’t exactly what Hawke had been expecting.

“I promised I’d tell you about Anders, didn’t I?”

Trevelyan nodded quickly. “Yes...ah, if it’s no trouble?”

Hawke really did smile then, for the first time since coming to Ferelden. Seeing the man who’d faced down the Elder One and his dragon and escaped without serious injury reduced to a bundle of nerves like this was both amusing and rather adorable.

“I get asked this sort of thing often,” Hawke admitted. “Everyone wants to hear about the man who supposedly single-handedly began the Mage Rebellion, never understanding that it had begun long before that. Thanks to Varric’s blasted book and numerous rumours and whispers over the years, everyone already has an image in their heads of what Anders is like. Some think he’s a monster – an abomination responsible for chaos on an unprecedented level. Others think he’s just an ordinary man who made some questionable choices.” Hawke raised an eyebrow at Trevelyan. “What about you? Who do you think Anders is?”

The Inquisitor chewed his bottom lip thoughtfully. “I think...Anders is a hero.”

Hawke blinked.

“A-After all,” Trevelyan hurried on, “if it weren’t for him, the Circles might not have been disbanded. I could still be trapped in that tower in Ostwick, for all I know. True, many have suffered and died because of the consequences of what he did. But Anders is the reason why we’re both standing here, today, ready and willing to save people.”

Hawke’s stunned expression slowly slid into a fond smile. Alec Trevelyan hadn’t at _all_ been what Hawke was expecting.

“Bold words from a man leading the organisation created to bring an end to the ‘chaos’ Anders purportedly caused,” Hawke commented, his words making the Inquisitor’s face fall.

“Yes, well...” A sigh escaped from Trevelyan’s lips. “Myself and the other Inquisition higher-ups haven’t always seen eye-to-eye on various issues. Cassandra believes our purpose is to restore the Chantry, but I’ll never let that happen.” Now the Inquisitor’s eyes were blazing with an anger Hawke found incredibly familiar. “My people have given too much for the Circles to return as they were. I agreed to take up the mantle of Inquisitor, not just for the sake of stopping Corypheus, but to ensure that no mage is ever made to spend another day in one of those prisons.” The anger in his expression died as swiftly as it had appeared. “But everyone disagrees when I say the Chantry should be done away with entirely. Even Leliana believes that Chantry can do great things under the right leadership and with the right purpose.” Trevelyan glanced down at his left hand, and Hawke saw a flicker of green light spill from between the fingers for a brief moment. “I have so much power as the Inquisitor now. But I don’t know if it’s enough to bring about the world the mages need. What if, in ages to come, magekind remembers me as a tyrant who betrayed his people to serve their oppressors?”

Hawke raised a hand and brought it to rest on Trevelyan’s shoulder. The young man stiffened at his touch, but didn’t pull away. He looked up at Hawke with widened eyes.

“Take it from me,” Hawke said, “if you spend your days worrying about how those in the future will view you, you won’t be able to focus on what needs to be done in the present. Do as much as you can. Let people like Varric deal with how you’ll be remembered.”

The corners of Trevelyan’s mouth slowly curled upwards into a smile. “Thank you.”

“Then again,” Hawke added wryly, “given how most of Thedas looks upon _me_ now, perhaps you should take my advice with a grain of salt.”

The Inquisitor’s smile turned into a grin, and he even let out a quiet chuckle.

“So, the truth about Anders...” Hawke almost chuckled himself at how the Inquisitor was immediately paying rapt attention to his every word. “The truth about Anders is that he is the most selfless man I’ve ever met.”

Trevelyan blinked in surprise, but made no effort to interrupt.

Hawke continued. “He gave years and years of his life in that clinic in Darktown. I don’t know how much you know about the living conditions in Kirkwall, but Darktown is the sort of place even the _rats_ avoid. Anders toiled day after day in a shabby home only a breath away from the sewers, healing and helping all who came to his doorstep. Even when he took me up on my offer to move in with me to my estate in Hightown, he would still spent much of his time in the clinic. He sacrificed so much for the sake of others, all while the Grand Cleric stayed well-fed and warm in her Hightown perch, not sparing a thought for the little people in her city.” Hawke heard his own voice take on a bitter tone, something Trevelyan noticed also.

“You didn’t care much for Grand Cleric Elthina, either?”

“How could I? Kirkwall was her responsibility, her jurisdiction, and she let it all fall to pieces. Even Knight-Commander Meredith answered to her – if the Grand Cleric wanted to, she could have stepped in to stop her oppression of the mages at any time. But she didn’t – not until Meredith was beginning to embarrass the Chantry, at least. One of her people, a Chantry mother, deliberately tried to engineer an uprising against the Qunari within the city walls, and I don’t think Elthina could have cared less. She wanted to preserve her own power above all else, and didn’t give two shits about the people of her city when it mattered most. She was the true enemy of the Kirkwall mages – not the Knight-Commander.”

An old anger stirred within Hawke for a moment, but he quelled it. It seemed that some wounds never truly healed.

“Anyway,” Hawke carried on, “Anders was a Grey Warden, you know. And from what little I understand about the Wardens, they have a drastically reduced lifespan compared to most. When he left the Wardens, he could have taken his life in any direction he wished. But he still used the precious time he had to help others at his own expense. Even now, with Kirkwall far behind him, he still runs a clinic for the sick and injured where he is. He was a hero – _my_ hero – long before the rebellion began.”

“...You really love him, don’t you?”

“More than anything else in the world,” Hawke confirmed. “Not in spite of who he is, but _because_ of it.”

Trevelyan’s warm smile waned. “Even after...?”

Hawke’s eyes flickered shut for a moment. “Yes, even after the Chantry explosion. I helped him gather the components for the bomb, and although he didn’t tell me what they were for, a part of me had already figured it out. I share in the responsibility for what happened to the Kirkwall Chantry. I could have tried to stop it...but I didn’t. I knew what he was trying to do, and I couldn’t deny that I wanted it too. It was the only way to save the Kirkwall mages from the Right of Annulment.”

Trevelyan frowned. “Hold on a moment. I thought that Knight-Commander Meredith called the Right of Annulment in response to Anders destroying the Chantry?”

Hawke shook his head and grimaced. “A common assumption. But it isn’t true. Meredith sent for the Right of Annulment _before_ Anders destroyed the Chantry. I heard as much from a templar named Ser Karras – one of the Knight-Commander’s loyal soldiers – weeks before the explosion. He stood there in the Gallows Courtyard and proclaimed to me, a known apostate, that the Knight-Commander had already sent to Val Royeaux for the Right. Anders was there too – I remember his eyes growing cold and hard as he heard the news. I think that was when he started formulating his plan.

“So, when Anders stood there before the flaming wreckage of the Chantry and told me he wanted to make Thedas see the injustice of the Circle, that it didn’t matter to him if he died or not after the people he’d killed, I couldn’t help but forgive him. If it weren’t for him, the mages in the Gallows would have been slaughtered in their beds when the Circle was annulled. At least with the explosion, the mages were given a fighting chance. Were I in his shoes, I can’t say I would have done any different.”

“Wow,” Trevelyan murmured after a few moments had gone by with only the whistling wind breaking the silence. “I...never knew all that. Varric’s book-”

“Don’t believe everything you read in those novels,” Hawke interrupted him. “Varric Tethras is a writer and a storyteller, _not_ a historian.” He rubbed his forehead wearily. “Maker’s breath. One of these days I’ll write my memoirs, and roughly half of the pages will be spent correcting falsehoods _The Tale of the Champion_ perpetuated.”

“Thank you,” Trevelyan said, prompting Hawke to glance up again. “For sharing that with me, I mean. I wish I could have met Anders myself.”

“Unfortunately, while Corypheus is around, Anders will be keeping as far away as possible. I’ve seen the control Corypheus has over Grey Wardens, and I don’t want to put him through that again. It was...hard enough the first time.”

Trevelyan clenched his fist. “Then when we destroy Corypheus once and for all, I’ll go meet him myself.”

Hawke smiled again, turning away from the Inquisitor to lean over the battlements once more and cast his gaze down into the courtyard below. His expression froze when he caught sight of a familiar blond-haired man directing Inquisition troops as they trained. It couldn’t be...

“Is that...?” Hawke squinted at the figure. The hair was styled differently, and he was no longer clad in templar armour, but there was no mistaking the face. “Cullen Rutherford?”

Trevelyan appeared at Hawke’s side to follow his gaze. “Hmm? Oh, yes, that’s Commader Cullen.”

A vein pulsed in Hawke’s temple. “Commander?” he echoed dangerously.

“He leads the Inquisitions forces, yes.” Trevelyan frowned at the intense expression gripping Hawke’s face. “I would’ve thought Varric had informed you about that?”

“Funnily enough,” Hawke said through gritted teeth, “he neglected to mention it.”

Pushing himself away from the battlements, Hawke set off at a brisk pace towards the stairs that led down to the lower levels of Skyhold. The Inquisitor hurried along after him, a nervous look crossing over his face.

“Is everything alright, Hawke?”

“Just fine,” he lied. “I simply need to have a word with your commander.”

“I...see.”

Despite his clear reservations, Trevelyan didn’t stop Hawke from marching down to the courtyard, although he kept pace directly behind him the whole way. The commander of the Inquisition was still drilling some sort of training regimen with the troops when Hawke reached the courtyard. His arrival at Skyhold had been on a need-to-know basis: only the Inquisitor’s inner circle were supposed to know that the Champion of Kirkwall was here. As such, Hawke had kept to the battlements for much of his stay in the keep, coming down only for meals and the like. Now, in Hawke’s anger, all attempts at secrecy had been abandoned, and he noticed as every person in the courtyard stopped what they were doing and looked on in shock as Hawke stormed towards their commander.

“...Make sure to keep your shields held high!” he was saying, directing the Inquisition troops with the same manner he’d given orders to the templars in Kirkwall. “Otherwise, you’ll-”

“Rutherford!” Hawke bellowed.

The commander froze mid-order, his voice dying in his throat. Cullen Rutherford slowly turned on his heel to face him, the entire courtyard having fallen completely silent in the wake of the Champion’s enraged shout.

“...Champion,” he replied, in a measured voice. “So you’ve arrived after all. Skyhold welcomes you-”

“Don’t give me that bullshit!” Hawke spat. “You’ve got a lot of nerve to show your face outside of Kirkwall after everything you did.”

Rutherford drew himself up to his fullest height. “What happened in Kirkwall is behind us. I am no longer part of the Templar Order. Here, I am the commander of the Inquisition’s military and I _will_ be shown an according level of respect – even from the Champion.”

Hawke snarled, rage buried deep within him bubbling up to the surface after so many years. “Maybe _you’ve_ put Kirkwall behind you, but don’t expect the rest of us to be so forgiving! I bet you’re just _thrilled_ to have a group of mages to tyrannise again!”

Rutherford’s eyes narrowed. “Whatever you may think of me, _Hawke_ , I took no pleasure in fulfilling my duties as a templar.”

“Your ‘duties’? Is _that_ what you call it?!”

“You’ve forgotten,” Rutherford snapped, “that when you fought Knight-Commander Meredith in the Gallows Courtyard that day, I stood alongside you and your companions.”

“And that was _after_ you allowed Meredith to slaughter mages without restraint for years! How many people – good, honest mages – were made Tranquil under _your_ jurisdiction? The Kirkwall mages suffered under your oppression just as much as they did your former superior! But she pays for her crimes from within a prison of red lyrium while her second-in-command now has more power than ever before, all thanks to a convenient last-minute change of heart.”

Rutherford’s jaw clenched, and he broke eye contact as he looked away from Hawke for the first time since he’d entered the courtyard. Their shouting match had drawn an even larger crowd than had already been present, and an uneasy expression crept across the commander’s face.

“The things I did in Kirkwall under Knight-Commander Meredith were wrong,” he said, his voice lowering. “I will acknowledge that– _have_ acknowledged that. But I stopped working for her the moment I knew she’d gone too far. If you’d-”

He was cut off by a barking laugh from the Champion. “When she’d ‘gone too far’?! You don’t think calling for the Right of Annulment and preparing to butcher every last mage in the city was _too far_? Or making Tranquil out of those who’d already passed their Harrowings? How about executing mages at random just to send a message? Was any of _that_ ‘too far’ enough for you?”

Rutherford screwed his eyes shut as though trying to hold on to what was left of his patience. “If you’d come with me to my quarters, we could discuss this more discreetly. I do not wish to disrupt my soldiers’ training regimen.”

“More like you don’t want them to hear the truth of your crimes! How many of your loyal troops know of the atrocities carried out in the Kirkwall Gallows that you turned a blind eye to in the name of _duty_? How many of the rebel mages subordinate to you know just how often you used the brand on their brethren? Do any of them even know how you got that scar?” Hawke pointed a solitary finger towards Rutherford’s mouth, and the commander actually flinched and took a step backwards. “I thought not.”

Patience evaporating at last in his fear, Rutherford’s eyes moved past Hawke and landed on something standing behind him. “Inquisitor, please! I do not wish to have the events of my past dredged up in this fashion.”

Hawke didn’t remove his gaze from the commander, not even when Trevelyan called out, “I want to hear what the Champion has to say.”

Hawke nodded. “As the Inquisitor wishes...”

 

_Rain hammered the stones beneath Hawke’s feet, making them almost treacherously slippery. He was lingering at the back of the group in the hopes that, should one of the robe-clad people ahead of him slip and fall, he could at least attempt to catch them. But the Champion was finding it difficult enough to keep his own balance, let alone worry about the other mages. It was so dark up here in the mountains that he could scarcely make out the glowing lights atop their staves, even as nearby as he was. His eyes picked out Anders’ staff, which seemed to shine brighter than any of the others, and heard his voice ringing out through the mist._

_“Keep going! You’re all doing great!”_

_Hawke stifled a chuckle, marvelling at how his companion was still capable of such perseverance after having been running almost non-stop for several hours. Perhaps it was his Warden-enhanced stamina, or it could have been the strength he inherited from Justice’s influence. Either way, Hawke knew that Anders was the reason the group of newly-made apostates had come so far in the half-day or so since they’d fled Kirkwall._

_Finally, the slope they were climbing began to even out, eventually becoming a sort of plateau of level ground. Hawke caught up with the mages, who had all gathered around a spot close by. Anders was addressing them, and Hawke staggered over to join him, trying to ignore the stitch in his side._

_“...I know we’ve been pushing you all very hard, but we’re almost free. One more push, and we’ll be over the Vimmarks. We can rest here for a time, but the further away we are from Kirkwall the better.”_

_The word ‘rest’ was what caught in everyone’s ears, and the mages set about almost immediately. Enchanted fires were lit, unable to be quenched by the torrential rain, and the more elderly mages began settling themselves down on the bare rock to ease their aching bones. Cuts and bruises obtained during the climb were healed, lyrium potions were taken, and a few minor attempts at forming shelter were made using Primal spells to shape the rock around them. Within a few minutes, the Kirkwall mages had settled in for a rest._

_“How are you feeling, love?” Hawke asked, once things had quietened down somewhat._

_Anders rubbed his forehead, looking weary for the first time since they’d left the city walls. “I’ll feel better once we’re out of the Free Marches, but we’ve still a ways to go before that happens.”_

_“You’ve been doing great so far,” Hawke reassured him._

_A ghost of a smile tugged at a corner of Anders’ mouth. “I appreciate it, love, but I’m worried about the mages. I need to be more considerate of the children and the elderly. Even though we need to stay on the move, I almost want to camp here for the night just to give them all a rest.”_

_It was a difficult choice to make. Anders was inherently a compassionate person, but Justice most likely wouldn’t let him rest until he could guarantee that the mages were safe._

_“Most of the people here haven’t been outside the Gallows in years,” Hawke pointed out. “At the rate we’ve been travelling, their legs will give out on them before we’re out of the Vimmarks. And besides, it’s late. They deserve a rest.”_

_Anders’ eyes shut for a moment, and the sockets flickered blue behind the eyelids for a moment, before he opened them again. “Alright. We’ll set up camp for the night.”_

_“I’ll take the watch,” Hawke announced, and Anders planted a kiss on his cheek._

_“Thank you, love. I’ll try and scrounge up some more volunteers, as well. You need your rest as much as anyone else.”_

_Hawke smiled fondly as his lover bade him farewell in order to attend to the others. The Champion set himself down on a rocky outcropping, rain still pelting his armour, and looked out over the great plains far below. Kirkwall was too far away now to see, what with the darkness and rain. The events of the past day had yet to fully sink in for Hawke: too many people, good and bad, had been lost. And now both he and the man he loved had fled the city that had been their home for over half a decade, along with roughly fifty mages from the Gallows..._

_Hawke swallowed bile. The thought was enough to make him sick – the Kirkwall Circle had been the largest outside of the Imperium, and had been a prison for hundreds of mages. Now, only a fraction of them remained. It was a crime, how few of them had survived. But it was thanks to Anders that any escaped the city at all before the Circle had been fully Annulled. Hawke hoped that the group of apostates they were now travelling with understood that._

_He didn’t know how long he’d been sitting out in the rain for when the lights began to emerge from the gloom. First there was just one, but then another appeared right behind it, then another, and another. Before long, the base of the mountain was lit up by about two dozen torchlights, and even from this distance, Hawke could see the glint from the lights reflected in the suits of armour holding the torches._

_Hawke leaped to his feet, joints aching, clothes sopping wet and clinging coldly to his skin. He backed away from the edge of the mountain, before turning and sprinting towards the newly-made camp’s centre. It didn’t take him long to find Anders – he was healing a Senior Enchanter who’d injured herself climbing the mountain. Anders noticed Hawke approaching out of the corner of his eye, finished closing the old woman’s wound with a few murmured words of advice, before straightening up and walking over to join him._

_“They’ve found us,” Hawke told him, his voice low and urgent._

_Anders’ eyes widened. “Already?” he hissed. “We’re scarcely a day out of Kirkwall!” He chewed on his lip for a moment as he thought. “How much time do we have?”_

_“Not enough. They’re at the base of the mountain.”_

_“Bastards!” Anders snapped, his veins shining through his skin with the azure hue of lyrium. “Can’t they just let us be?!” He made a visible attempt to calm himself, the blue light fading away from his flesh once more. “It’s me they’re after. If I surrender to them, you can take the others and escape.”_

_Hawke grabbed him by the shoulders. “You really think I’ll let you give yourself up after everything?”_

_“Garrett, please just-”_

_“_ No _, Anders. They won’t just stop once they have you. They’ll keep hunting us down until we’re all either dead or back in the Gallows. Or worse – Tranquil.”_

_Anders’ jaw clenched. “You...may be right. But what else can we do? None of these people are ready for another flight so soon.”_

_“Spread the word that the templars are coming, and that anyone who’s willing to fight should prepare for battle again. Everyone else should stay to the rear.”_

_“Are you sure we can do this?” Anders asked, concern and fear gripping his expression. The last time Hawke had seen that look in his eyes, they’d been lit by the dying embers of the Chantry wreckage. Hawke felt the same way then as he did now. He tightened his grip on Anders’ shoulders and pulled him into a deep kiss. The other mage didn’t resist, sliding his hands onto Hawke’s back. When they broke apart, Hawke pressed his forehead against Anders’._

_“I would drown the Free Marches in blood to keep you safe, my love,” he whispered._

_Anders blinked, before a warm smile lit up his face. He pulled away, bellowing over his shoulder. Hawke immediately set about doing the same. Before long, the entire camp had been roused – many of them from slumber. Anders was doing his best to keep people from panicking, but a sense of dread and fear had gripped the runaway mages. They’d had their first taste of freedom in so long, and now their former jailors were coming to capture them once again. It was enough to make even the most hardened Circle mage tremble._

_Hawke stood at the camp’s edge, facing the edge of the mountain, beyond which the warm glow of torchlight was beginning to appear. Anders was right beside him, with the rest of the able mages standing behind. The first of the templars crested the edge of the mountain, and the ripple of fear that spread through the group of mages was palpable. One-by-one, the templars appeared out of the gloom, torches sputtering in the wind and rain, light and shadow playing on cold metal armour. Hawke counted roughly two dozen of them as they spread out towards the mages’ camp, already forming a phalanx, mailed boots clattering against rock and stone. Hawke had fought numerous templars before, but the sight of them was still enough to make him uneasy._

_The first templar who had appeared stepped forward. He was wearing a helmet, much as his troops were, but Hawke recognised the insufferably dignified gait all the same._

_“Champion!” Rutherford called out, voice reaching Hawke’s ears through the din of the rainfall._

_“Knight-Captain,” he returned the greeting. “How kind of you to give us all a five-minute headstart! You have the patience of a saint.”_

_“I did not come to listen to your japes, Hawke. I’m here for the Grand Cleric’s murderer. Surrender the terrorist to us immediately, and we will leave your people be.”_

_Hawke shook his head, never taking his eyes off of the knight-captain. He raised his voice for all mages and templars to hear. “Don’t listen to him. He didn’t bring what few remaining supporters he has just to capture one apostate. These people won’t rest until every last one of us is back in the Gallows, where they think we belong.”_

_“The Gallows_ are _where you belong,” Rutherford insisted. “You mages are a danger to yourselves and the innocents of Thedas. Left unchecked, you will destroy yourselves as certain as the sun will rise on the morrow. Just look for yourself how many people died today in Kirkwall due to your magic!”_

 _Anders snarled. “Don’t try to pin the blame for all the lives lost on the mages! You templars are the ones who called for the Right of Annulment! You expected us to sit tight and_ wait _to be slaughtered instead of fighting back like any normal person would!”_

_Rutherford unsheathed his blade and levelled it at Anders. “I will not listen to the poisoned words of a murderer and abomination such as you! You have some gall to accuse us of being butchers when it was your actions that took the lives of all those innocent souls in the Chantry!”_

_“The Grand Cleric was no innocent,” Anders retorted. “And neither were her cronies in the Chantry who lorded their power over the oppressed because it was their ‘divine right’! The lives I took today may stain my soul forever, but I will damn myself to the Void for eternity if it means the mages can finally live free of the Chantry’s chains!”_

_Rutherford swept his gaze over the mages that stood behind Hawke and Anders. “You would all follow this zealot instead of your rightful rulers? This path will lead the mages to naught but destruction and ruin.”_

_“That is what the Chantry and its templars_ want _you to believe!” Anders turned his back on the gathered templars to address the mages. “The journey before us may be long and treacherous, but it leads to freedom and equality!”_

_“Your words are as empty as your integrity, mage,” Rutherford snapped. “Your ‘journey’ ends here. Surrender to us now, and you will be spared. The Circle will welcome you all back with open arms.”_

_“Open arms and a brand,” Hawke spat, drawing his staff. “Make no mistake, everyone – the only thing that awaits you if you return to the Circle now is Tranquillity.”_

_“Stand down, Champion,” the knight-captain ordered. “Your people, and the people of Kirkwall, have lost enough lives this day. Please, see sense. You are leading these mages to their end.”_

_The pleading note in Rutherford’s voice would have been convincing coming from almost anyone else. As it was now, in the voice of the man who’d once told Hawke that mages couldn’t even be considered people, it rang as hollow as a Chantry’s bell._

_“Then order your men to back down,” Hawke commanded. “Knight-Captain Rutherford, I challenge you to a duel.”_

_There were shocked gasps and nervous whispers from the mages, and even a few of the templars shifted uneasily. Rutherford stiffened, but his mailed hand clenched tighter around the handle of his sword._

_“...What would be the terms of this_ duel _?”_

 _“If you win, I will surrender the mages to you without a struggle. I cannot promise you that_ they _will come quietly, but I will do nothing to stop you.”_

_“And supposing I were to lose?” Hawke marvelled at the confidence in Rutherford’s voice._

_“Then you and your templars will return to Kirkwall empty-handed. You will never see us again.”_

_Rutherford chuckled and shook his head. “What reason have I to agree to these terms?”_

_“Our people outnumber yours two-to-one. While it is possible you may prevail, it will not be without great loss to both your forces and ours. Should you defeat me in single combat, you may return with as many mages as are willing to go with you. This is the solution that provides the fewest amount of casualties. After all, you said yourself that too many people have died today.”_

_The knight-captain was silent for some time. One of his troops eventually spoke up._

_“Ser...?”_

_But Rutherford waved him off with a hand. “I agree to your terms, Hawke.”_

_“But, ser!” the templar tried again. “It’s the_ Champion _!”_

 _“I’m well aware of that, Ser Trevelyan. Now, stand_ down _.”_

_The templar cast one last fearful, angry look at Hawke through her visor, before stepping back into her position within the ranks._

_“Are you sure about this, love?” Anders voice came murmuring into Hawke’s ear. “If he smites you, this could be over very quickly.”_

_“I can’t afford to lose,” Hawke replied out of the corner of his mouth. “Besides, I slew the Arishok single-handedly. I think I can handle this pissant.”_

_“I hope you’re right.” Hawke could hear the nervousness in Anders’ voice, but his lover moved away from him nonetheless, backing away to join the mages standing behind them._

_Rutherford stepped forward, Hawke moving to meet him, until the two were standing only ten feet apart. Away from the torchlight, Rutherford’s armour didn’t shine so brightly anymore, but his sword twisted and caught a glint of fire for a brief moment. That was how Hawke saw the templar’s first strike coming. Rutherford closed the distance between the two of them faster than Hawke had expected, blade plunging out of the gloom, and the Champion barely succeeded in stepping out of the way. Rutherford turned, swinging his sword in the direction of the mage, but Hawke merely leaped backwards, raising his staff over his head and calling out to the Fade. Lightning crackled, surging from the tip of the staff and arcing towards the templar. Rutherford raised his shield just in time, tilting it ever so slightly towards the ground at Hawke’s feet, and the bolt of electricity sizzled harmlessly against the metal surface. A sound like a gust of wind reached Hawke’s ears and his head felt heavy as the lightning jolting across the templar’s shield was dissipated. Had Hawke been any closer, he knew, his connection to the Fade could have been severed entirely. The duel wore on, the Champion keeping his distance, eyeing Rutherford’s stance for any opening he could find. Whenever the templar made to lunge for him again, Hawke would leap away and fire another spell in his direction. He knew that, in order to win the battle, he would need to press the attack sooner or later. But Rutherford was undoubtedly thinking the same thing._

_Stepping away again, Hawke brought a hand up before bringing it crashing down again, accompanied with a burst of force magic. Rutherford stiffened as wave after wave of energy crashed over him, the rocky ground cracking under his feet with the sheer strength of Hawke’s magic. But the templar’s natural resistance to magic kept him upright despite the strain. Hawke grimaced, preparing to cast the spell once more as he backed further and further away from the templar. He lifted his hand again, catching traces of the Veil between his fingers, before he heard the familiar sound of a smiting blast in his ears as stomach flipped and the Fade slipped away from him. Hawke groaned as his head pounded, teeth chattering against each other and he desperately tried to hold onto his magic, but it was no use. Pins and needles tingled in his hands and feet, creeping up his limbs like vines up a tree. His mind spun with confusion – how had Cullen managed to smite him from so far away? But the sound of heavy footsteps from behind him brought his attention to the fact that, in the heat of the duel, he’d stepped too close to the knight-captain’s followers. One of them must have smited him without him noticing, despite the terms of the duel. Now, Rutherford was sprinting towards him again, his blade glowing with a searing white light that lit up the falling raindrops like lightning. Cursing, Hawke clutched his staff and threw himself to the ground just as the knight-captain lunged at him once again. The Champion rolled out of the way of the templar’s reach, moving as far away from the members of the Order as he could. He struggled to his feet, but his strength had been dulled by the smiting, and in the brief moments he’d been close to Rutherford, the knight-captain had taken the chance to smite him himself. Hawke gasped in pain as he felt what little mana he had left slip away, his limbs growing numb and collapsing under his weight. Hawke fell to the wet ground and landed painfully on his back, staff falling out of his grip and clattering against the rock. His vision blurred, partly from the rain that had trickled into his eyes and partly due to the way his head was swimming after his connection to the Fade had been cut off. Rutherford was approaching him again, the light from his sword illuminating his figure as it drew nearer. The knight-captain was taking his time, his steps slow and measured; he could see the famous Champion of Kirkwall helpless on the ground before him, and probably knew he had already won. From somewhere nearby, Anders was shouting Hawke’s forename, but he could barely hear it through the blood pounding in his ears. Hawke tried to still his breathing, a trick he had learned after numerous fights against templars that often helped ease the effects of a smiting. Gradually, feeling began to spread through his arms and legs again._

_Rutherford was almost upon him now, that burning white light shining on his helmet like a halo. Through his hazy vision, Hawke thought he could see the knight-captain’s deep brown eyes lurking behind his visor, narrowed in anger and hatred. Rutherford aimed his sword at the Champion’s throat, the light almost blindingly close to his face. Hawke wiggled his right foot experimentally._

_“Yield,” Rutherford commanded, his voice as low as distant thunder._

_“Fuck you,” Hawke spat through his chattering teeth, before swinging his leg upwards with all of his might. His right foot collided with the templar’s sword hand, knocking it away. Rutherford let out a cry of surprise and pain, but Hawke was already moving. He let the momentum from his kick carry him upwards, rolling head over heels until he was kneeling upright again, one hand reaching out to grab his dropped staff. His fingers tightened around the staff, aching through the pins and needles, the torrent of rage and determination swelling up within him lending him strength. He let out a roar as he called for the Fade one more time, feeling himself break through the dull ache in his mind caused by Rutherford’s smiting, and the tip of his staff lit up with electricity in response. Time seemed to slow as Hawke straightened his legs, getting to his feet, staff arcing upwards towards Rutherford’s helmet. Through the black spots dancing in his vision, Hawke could see the templar’s blade swinging towards him, but the Champion was moving too fast. His staff hit the underside of Rutherford’s helmet, magic-fuelled strength aiding the blow. The jaw of the helmet crumpled under the force, and he heard the templar’s agonised scream as the flickering end of the staff slammed into the flesh underneath. The staff kept going, lifting the helmet into the air as Hawke followed through with the swing. Rutherford’s head snapped backwards, his body toppling over as he fell to the ground, still juddering from the electricity coursing through him. Hawke stood tall over the downed templar, his staff still held aloft and crackling triumphantly with magic. Aside from the ever-present roar of rain against rock, the mountaintop was utterly silent. The duel had ended._

_Hawke lowered his staff at last, feeling his body aching with fatigue. He stepped towards the fallen knight-captain, whose ruined helmet had landed some distance away, revealing his familiar blond hair now plastered to his scalp. The bottom of Rutherford’s face was covered in blood, his mouth barely visible beneath a layer of crimson fluid pouring from the gash Hawke had made over his upper lip. Hawke placed the tip of his staff just underneath Rutherford’s jaw._

_“Yield,” Hawke echoed._

_Pain and defiance flickered in the templar’s eyes. He snarled through the blood coating his mouth, and Hawke saw the muscles in his neck tense as he attempted to lift himself back up again. A quick jolt from the staff’s end later and Rutherford had sank back down to the ground again, body shuddering as another surge of electricity went through him._

_“Yield.”_

_Rutherford bared his bloodstained teeth, but the light in his eyes was fading. His irises rolled backwards in his head as he slipped into unconsciousness. Hawke let out a relieved sigh and stepped back._

_“It’s over!” he announced. “Retrieve your knight-captain and go back home to Kirkwall. Don’t bother trying to search for us again. You won’t find us.”_

_And with that, Hawke turned his back on the templars and staggered back to the camp. Anders would keep an eye on them as they retreated. For now, the Champion just needed to rest._

 

As Hawke finished his tale, the Skyhold courtyard remained silent. Not unexpectedly, it was Rutherford himself who was the first to speak up.

“Lord Trevelyan,” he muttered. “The Champion of Kirkwall is an apostate and known rebel who openly supported the Chantry bombing, and cannot be trusted.”

The Inquisitor appeared in Hawke’s field of vision as he stepped towards the commander. “Need I remind you, Commander Cullen, that I too am an apostate mage. Furthermore, I was also a rebel before my induction into the Inquisition’s forces. Are you suggesting that I _also_ cannot be trusted?”

The former knight-captain spluttered. “Y-Your Worship, I meant no disrespect. I merely meant to say that Hawke carries a hatred of all templars, past and present. I implore you to take his biased words with a grain of salt.”

“Your concerns are noted, commander,” Trevelyan told him. “In fact, I’m rather keen to hear your side of this tale. I believe that you and I should discuss this matter further, in your quarters.”

Rutherford flinched, before trying one last time to reason with his superior. “Lord Trevelyan, what happened before the war began is of no relevance to my position here as military advisor!”

“I don’t believe that’s for _you_ to decide, Commander Cullen,” the Inquisitor coolly replied. “Your quarters. _Now_.”

Rutherford’s eyes darted around the courtyard, searching desperately for someone or something that could assist him. He found nothing. “...Yes, Your Worship.”

All of the fight seemingly having been drained out of him, the commander obediently led the Inquisitor out of the courtyard. Neither of them looked back at Hawke, who had been left standing alone. Nobody was daring to draw near, either out of fear or reverence. Feeling at least that he’d done as much as he could, Hawke made to depart the courtyard himself and return to the battlements, only to find a familiar dwarf standing by the stairs and chuckling quietly.

“Andraste’s right nipple, Hawke,” Varric said, a wry grin curling his mouth upwards. “Would it have killed you to show some restraint? Curly looked like you just castrated him out there.”

“I need a pint,” Hawke informed him. “Or five. And since you so _kindly_ forgot to tell me about the Inquisition’s commanding officer, you’re buying.”

Varric sighed. “That’s fair. You coming with, kid?”

He turned to glance at a young man with an oversized hat who Hawke could have sworn hadn’t been there a moment before. The man was sitting on a low wall, rocking back and forth and swinging his legs, looking for all the world like a large child.

“Lip aches,” he muttered, almost too quiet to here. “Head pounds. Blood warm and thick against my tongue. The Champion stands over me like a giant. His lips say _yield_ but his eyes say _pathetic_.”

Hawke blinked. “I’m sorry?”

The young man’s head slowly turned to meet Hawke’s gaze. Underneath the hat’s large brim, his eyes were the cold blue of a winter’s sky.

“He’s ashamed. He thought what he was doing was the right thing. Everyone had told him that for as long as he’d known. _Mages are not people_ , he’d say, but what he meant was _mages_ cannot _be people_. _They can’t be, or else nothing I’ve done was right._ ” The man’s words were feverish, spilling out of his mouth seemingly without restraint. “He wants to hide that part of him from everyone – that’s why he lies. He even made himself believe it. But you showed them all the truth. Now he’s afraid.”

The man was talking about Rutherford, Hawke realised. But how could he know these things...?

Varric clapped a hand on the young man’s back. “Alright, kid, rein it in. I’ll tell you a great story over drinks.”

The man in the hat blinked his large eyes slowly, before turning to Varric with a small smile. “I like stories,” he said lightly.

“I know you do, kid. Come on, Hawke.”

Varric sauntered off to the tavern, the strange young man trailing quietly in his wake. Hawke shrugged and followed them, still pondering everything he’d heard. He didn’t know how this business with Rutherford and the Inquisitor would turn out, but he knew now that Alec Trevelyan had a good head on his shoulders. If the Inquisition had to exist, Hawke was glad it was being led by someone like him.

A smile tugging at one corner of his mouth, Hawke followed his dwarven friend into the tavern.


End file.
